Or not. Because soon after landing in San Francisco and hobbling through customs, Blue encountered a long row of mounted television monitors, all of them tuned to CNN, and it was like watching—in awful visual stereo—one long eulogy. He did not notice at first—he was too busy trying to act as if he weren’t in pain—but through the chatter and crush of the airport crowd, the background noise crept in. A woman with a deep, pleasant voice. Blue heard her say the words tragic loss and a great man, and then, quite suddenly, there was a name to go with those adjectives, a memorable name, a name Blue knew as well as his own, because it was his own.
Felix Perrineau. Dead at the age of seventy. Heart attack in his sleep.
A long time since Blue had heard that name spoken out loud, and though the announcement was no surprise, it triggered something inside of him: not laughter, but something worse …
The lights in the terminal flickered. Blue clamped down hard on his emotions, fighting himself, but it was too late: Sparks shot from the ceiling fixtures, the electrical sockets, raining down as people ducked and shouted. Static leaped like baby lightning bolts from the carpet.
Blue said nothing. His hands curled into fists. He closed his eyes.
The lights did not go out.
But a moment later his cell phone began to ring.
The call was from a stranger, a man who knew his real name. Blue did not like that, but he agreed to meet the fellow because he also knew Blue’s mother’s name—and he had a message from her. In her native language.
The stranger’s Farsi was bad—or maybe it was the cell phone connection—but Blue caught enough, and all the worry he felt for his friends transferred in one gut-wrenching second to his mother.
“Sleep,” said the man, his voice cracking, his accent poor. “Sleep, my son. I wish that sleep come to your eyes and you will sleep like a stone in the water.”
Words from an ancient lullaby, one that Blue had not heard for years on end. His mother did not sing anymore. She did not speak her language. She did not do anything that reminded her of Kandahar, of Afghanistan. Too much pain. Her sisters had died there.
But if his mother had shared that lullaby with a stranger—a song Blue knew meant a great deal to her …
Something’s wrong, Blue thought, dialing her home number. And it sure as hell isn’t grief.
She was not at the house. She was not at the law office, either, and her secretary was no help, confessing only that Mahasti had been gone for the past several days, away on a family emergency.
Some emergency. Blue tried her cell phone. No luck there, either.
Limited options. No time to call in the agency. Damn. What a time for an ambush.
And if it is Santoso involved? If this really is a ruse?
Time for a fight, then. No holds barred. No misguided ethics or hesitation. No tricks or subterfuge, either. Blue gathered up his strength and walked through the airport terminal. He did not try to slip away without being seen—or better yet, wait out the stranger and follow him. Instead, he marched straight into baggage claim, searching for an older gentleman wearing a blue suit and purple tie, as he’d been instructed.
Blue found him easily, the man standing out like a diamond in the slag of straggling airport humanity. Tall, elegant, and lean, he was waiting quietly beside carousel one, all easy strength, easy class, good breeding oozing from his pores. The man’s silver hair was thick and full, his jaw set, his keen eyes a very bright shade of silver. He looked remarkably like Blue’s father.
“You’re family,” Blue said to him, when he was close enough to say anything at all. Introductions on his part, he thought, were completely unnecessary—and somewhat of a relief. Because maybe Santoso wasn’t involved, after all, and this was just what it seemed to be: a family matter, overdue and difficult. Nothing Blue needed to fight over. Not yet, anyway.
The man did not smile. “My name is Brandon. I’m here to take you home, Mr. Perrineau.”
Mr. Perrineau. Blue could not remember the last time he had been addressed by his given name. He thought perhaps never.
“You can call me Blue,” he said cautiously. “That’s good enough.”
“Good enough,” Brandon echoed, mouth crooking upward. “If you like. Though I can assure you there’s no need to hide from the other. It is your legal name.”
“Really.” Blue tried not to laugh. “If you spent any time around my father, Brandon, I think you would understand why it would be totally … inappropriate for me to take his name.”
“Bygones,” murmured the man, and pointed toward the double doors leading out of the airport. “If you don’t have any bags …”
Blue did not. What he did have was a burning desire to go home to his apartment and get his gun.
“Where are we going?” he asked, unmoving. “And why would my mother pass on a message to you instead of calling me herself? Where is she?”
“At your father’s house.” Brandon walked slowly backward, toward the exit behind him. “She is safe, she is healthy, and the only reason she did not call you herself is that she wanted to make a point. Something that would make you … sit up and listen.”
“My mother doesn’t need messengers to make me sit up and listen,” Blue replied sharply. “Something else is going on here.”
“Of course,” Brandon said. He turned and walked through the exit. This time Blue followed.
It took them two hours to drive to his father’s estate, a rambling drive over winding roads that curled and curled into the mountains. Blue occasionally caught wild glimpses of the sea, heard the cries of gulls mixing with the rasp of ravens. The air was sweet. Beyond the confines of the Audi, his mind encountered only silence.
Brandon did not talk; nor did Blue encourage him. No energy to waste. Blue’s body hurt. He could not stop thinking about his mother. Santoso was there, too, but more distant. For the first time since waking up in Malaysia, Blue was ready to hand the case off to his friends.
“We’re close.” Brandon’s posture was relaxed, his voice easy and deep. The road ahead cut through deep forest, shrouded from the sun.
“Are you his brother?” Blue asked, because sitting beside Brandon was like being next to his father, and that was more disconcerting than he wanted to admit. Even more so than the sudden spike of electricity buzzing in his brain. Close, yes. Damn close.
“Does it matter?” Brandon replied. “I thought you wanted nothing to do with the family.”
“I don’t believe I ever had a choice. I know my mother didn’t.”
Brandon said nothing. He merely tapped on the brakes, slowing the car to a crawl until he pulled onto a narrow turnoff that appeared, quite suddenly, on the far side of a massive cedar. Blue glimpsed a blinking red light—some laser sensor set in the ground—and knew that ahead of them, someone had been alerted to their presence.
“This is your first time here,” Brandon said.
“Yes,” Blue lied.
Brandon glanced at him, and for a moment Blue wondered if he knew the truth. But all he said was, “Your mother arrived several days ago. I promise you she’s safe.”
“Safe’s not enough,” Blue said, clenching his hands. “She’d better be healthy, happy, ready to dance the tango—because if she’s not any of those things, if my father has hurt her, all of you are fucked, and good.”
“So little trust?”
“No trust. At all.”
Brandon’s only response was a grim smile—which Blue did not find comforting in the slightest.
The house looked the same as he remembered: a mansion made of logs, some California dream of rustic wonder that had always caused Blue to speculate how a man like his father—who had a heart as small and hard as a hollow walnut casing—could possibly appreciate—or even want to live in—a place of such wild beauty. The mind boggled.
Men in dark clothing moved along the periphery of the house, deep in the woods. Blue saw some of them with his own eyes, but there were others waiting out of sight.
They carried radios, earpieces, Tasers; Blue could feel the electrical currents in his head. He thought about shorting them out, but held back. Later, maybe.
Brandon parked the car in front of the house. Blue glimpsed movement behind the windows. He began to open his door, but Brandon caught his arm and said, “Careful now.”
Blue stared at his hand. “I thought this was supposed to be safe.”
Brandon released him, but his eyes were hard. “For your mother,” he said, and Blue could not read the terrible emotion that swept his face. “But for you? Be careful.”
Blue heard the crunch of gravel; Brandon looked away and quickly got out of the car. Blue stared at his back for one brief moment, gave up the question on his lips, and, gritting his teeth, opened up his own door to follow. His knee popped; the entire right side of his body felt stiff. His confinement to the plane—and the car—had not done him any favors. He tried not to hobble.
A security guard stood nearby, rifle in hand, a pistol strapped to his side. Blue thought about shattering the man’s eardrum—one high-voltage shock from the radio device in his ear would do it—but again, control won out. Caution, be prudent. Timing was everything.
Brandon gestured to Blue, and together the two of them walked up to the house. The front doors—carved and embedded with stained glass—opened wide as they neared. Inside were shadows, the outline of hardwood furniture. No lights. The curtains were drawn. Blue caught the edge of movement, and a woman stepped into the light.
“Mom,” Blue said, and his relief was nothing less than a sucker punch. He forced himself to breathe.
“Felix,” she said. Her voice was soft but firm, no sign of fear or weakness. She wore a dark gray gabardine suit, closely tailored to her full figure. Her thick black hair—courtesy of a good dye job—curled in smooth waves to her shoulders, framing a round face that might have been sweet if her eyes had been as soft as her body. Instead, her gaze was black, sharp, narrow—closer to an eagle than a dove—and Blue did not miss the shadows in her gaze, the appearance of a new wrinkle in her forehead.
Mahasti glanced at Brandon. “Did you explain anything to him?”
“Of course not,” he replied. “It wasn’t my place.”
“Not your place,” she echoed sarcastically, and shook her head. She held out her hand to Blue. “Come here. Let me look at you. Your employer said there was an accident.”
“Mom,” he said firmly, ignoring her scrutiny. “What’s going on?”
“Your father,” she said, and the disgust in her voice was profound. “Your father and his tricks.”
“He’s dead,” Blue said, searching her face. “Tricks are for the living.”
Brandon stepped past them and entered the house. The moment he disappeared around the door, Blue moved in close and grabbed his mother’s shoulders. She was a short woman; he had to bend over to peer into her eyes.
“We can leave right now,” he told her quietly. “Say the word and we’re out of here. No one will be able to stop us. I won’t let him ruin your life again.”
“Ever the optimist,” she murmured, looking away. “I am so sorry, Felix. So very sorry. If it were just myself involved, I would never have allowed this to go so far. Would never have agreed to anything. But it is not just me, and I cannot … I cannot find a way out. Not this time.”
“Mom.”
“No.” She pulled away from him. “I am a poor mother. I am a terrible mother for this. A mother who cannot protect her child …” Her mouth tightened, and the fear that Blue had pushed away returned again, hard and strong.
They entered the house. It was not the first time Blue had been inside his father’s mountain estate, but the previous occasion had been uninvited, of the breaking-and-entering kind. Under the cover of darkness—a teenage exercise—creeping through the woods, disabling security measures with nothing but a thought. Shutting down the grid for a mile around. A reckless act, but one that Blue knew could never be traced back to him. No fingerprints, no tools, no explanation. Just a faulty system. A glitch.
Nothing had changed. Blue felt the security cameras tracking their movements as they walked through the main living area—an open space divided by pieces of expensive furniture and sculpture, vases and statues that were distinctly Asian in origin. They looked very old. Illegal acquisitions, probably. Blue had learned more about that sort of thing over the past three months than he had any interest in knowing, but a man had to be polite, and his best friend was newly married to an archaeologist who had strong opinions on the theft and sale of ancient artifacts on the black market.
Better rocks and glass than flesh and blood, Blue thought. Better those things any day.
Their footsteps echoed; the house appeared empty, but Blue felt security lingering just out of sight. An odd feeling began rumbling through his gut; a terrible suspicion. He said nothing, though, simply watched his mother walk with a straight spine, watched as she turned her head to stare at Brandon, watched as Brandon slowed to look back at her with an expression that could only be called unhappy. It was a look of familiarity, as though Brandon had known his mother much longer than a simple handful of days.
And it made Blue nauseated all over again, a sensation that worsened as he pushed his mind ahead and found a fat wad of electricity—a collection of circuits and power so concentrated, so tangled and twisted, his teeth buzzed with the energy. Close, so close—they rounded a corner in the hall, a hall with only one door, and Blue thought, You’re there. Goddamn it, but you’re there.
Brandon did not hesitate when he reached the door. He opened it, and there on the other side was an electronic fortress, a web of wires and monitors and flashing screens, which provided the only light in the room: a blue, shimmering glow. The monitors surrounded, covered, and were suspended over a giant bed dressed in creamy satin sheets and overstuffed pillows. And on that bed, snug within the cocoon, lay a familiar man who was, unfortunately, very much alive.
“Huh,” Blue grunted, staring at his father. He looked the same as his pictures, and almost the same as the last time Blue had seen him. Only thinner, with more hollows in his face. A fine resemblance to Brandon’s aged elegance.
The old man did not look at him. His fingers skimmed the keyboard in his lap, his gaze flickering over the screens in front of and above him. His mouth moved; he spoke silently to himself. Off to the side, a flat-paneled television broadcasted a muted CNN. Blue saw his father’s picture flash briefly, followed by overhead shots of a funeral in progress. Men in dark suits were carrying a casket. Blue recognized the faces of several heads of state.
“I’m being buried in France,” his father suddenly said, voice low and sardonic, still with that elegant edge he remembered so well. His fingers never stopped moving and his eyes remained trained on his computer screen, which cast a blue glow on his face. “Nice little show, isn’t it?”
“Only if you’re psychotic,” Blue replied. “But oh, wait. You are.”
Perrineau smiled. “I prefer being referred to as complex. Besides, a diagnosis of actual psychosis is dependent on the perceived normalcy of the rest of society. And to everyone outside this house? I am—or rather, was—as sane as apple pie.”
And richer than God. Which, in Blue’s opinion, mattered more to most people than morals or loose marbles.
“Felix,” Mahasti said, stepping toward the bed. “Don’t play word games with your son. I want this over and done with.”
“My son,” murmured the old man, finally looking at Blue. His eyes were small and hard; the dim lights of the room only accentuated the shadows on his pale skin. His fingers stopped moving. “I don’t believe he ever wanted to be my son.”
“I had a good reason,” Blue replied, refusing to look at his mother. “And even if I didn’t, I don’t believe you ever wanted to be my father. I wasn’t … white enough for you.”
Perrineau narrowed his eyes. “God doesn’t love whiners, boy. I love them even less.”
“Felix,” Brandon m
urmured.
“Felix,” Perrineau mimicked. He tossed aside his keyboard, but it did not land far. Not for any lack of effort, either. Blue was surprised at the show of weakness, but before he could comment, the old man said, “Wipe that look off your face, boy. I didn’t bring you here to gawk.”
“Could have fooled me. But since we’re on the subject, why did you go to all the trouble? Because pretending to be dead? That’s rather … extreme.”
“Maybe I want to reconcile,” Perrineau said, but there was a sly glint in his eye, and Blue shook his head, folding his arms over his chest. His ribs ached. His heart ached, too, and that was unexpected.
You should have been cold to this. Should have expected it. You can’t let it bother you anymore. Not after all these years.
Years spent telling himself he did not need a father, that his mother was enough, that his friends were family and that nothing else mattered. But here, now, a mouthful of words and the old storm was back, with all the same disappointment. It made Blue sick with anger.
“Forget this.” He reached for his mother’s hand. “We’re out of here.”
“You leave, you pay,” Perrineau said immediately, voice hard. “Trust me when I say the price will be steep.”
“You better not be threatening my life.”
Perrineau smiled. “And your mother?”
Brandon made a small sound. Mahasti pulled her hand away. Her eyes were hooded, dark.
“Do not use me against him,” she said to Perrineau. “Felix, I thought we had an understanding.”
“You’re a lawyer, my dear. And I fucked you. Surely you know me better than that.”
Blue’s hands spasmed into fists. “Don’t talk to her like that.”
“Or what? You’ll kill me?” Perrineau bared his teeth. “Good boy. You be good and do that. See what it gets you.”
A one-way ticket to hell and back, Blue thought, forcing himself to breathe. He uncurled his fists, but that was all; the knot in his chest simply got tighter and harder, like some bitter plug pushing up against his heart. Blue tested his shields; they were still strong, but much more of this and that could change. And if it did, with his temper running so high …
Eye of Heaven Page 3
